


you'd be forgiven if you think you're dreaming

by escriveine



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 13th Century CE, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Backstory, Other, The Arrangement (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-18 21:44:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20646149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escriveine/pseuds/escriveine
Summary: Southeastern Lithuania, 1262. On the way to an assignment, Crowley is bewildered to find that he’s inadvertently acquired a devotee. Aziraphale works out what’s going on, but it takes a couple of miracles — and a grass snake — to set things right.Or: What happens when a pair of Ineffable Idiots take a road trip during an outbreak of ergotism?





	you'd be forgiven if you think you're dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> By custom and practice, the title comes from Queen: “Driven By You”  
⸻  
Many thanks to the lovely gutterandthestars and popkin16 for their copious encouragement and beta-reading!

_ Southeastern Lithuania, 1262 _

Crowley slithered out of the carriage that, in his professional opinion, belonged in Hell bang alongside the hot pokers and other implements of torture. He was having more difficulty than usual sorting out his legs, while various of his southerly organs felt like they had been jolted into less hospitable northern reaches. “This,” he said to the rather seasick-looking angel stepping down to join him, “is the _ last _ time you make the travel arrangements.”

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale couldn’t really argue the point, even though the particulars of the journey had been decreed from on high. He personally would have plumped for direct translocation, or at least a great deal more padding. “Perhaps a brief constitutional to stretch our legs?”

“Yes, all right,” Crowley sighed. He stalked through the mist after the angel, tromping straight through puddles that Aziraphale fastidiously avoided.

After the second splash, Aziraphale murmured, “Really, dear fellow, isn’t it damp enough already?”

“Ngh,” replied Crowley.

“It would be a shame if you caught your dea—discorporation of cold from wet feet.” Aziraphale stepped cautiously over a particularly turbid runnel, adding, “Besides, you’ll ruin your lovely red stockings.”

_ My lovely red…? _ Unaccustomed as he was to blinking, Crowley gave it a go.

Knit footwear had to be the most decorous of what Aziraphale would undoubtedly term _ sartorial unmentionables, _ but Crowley’s socks weren’t actually visible under his long trousers and tall boots. He was on the verge of inquiring when exactly the angel had gotten a peek when he felt a sharp tug at his left sleeve.

Glancing over, he saw a young woman swathed in plaid skirts and felted wool and miles of finely woven linen trailing alongside him. As she plucked at the heavy black piping on his cuff, Crowley suppressed a growl. He was in no mood to be pestered by a human. Especially when she shouldn’t have been able to notice him at all, not unless he wanted her to. Which he most emphatically didn’t. You couldn’t go around rewarding that sort of behavior.

Wordlessly shrugging her off, Crowley caught up to his counterpart with two long strides.Droplets began to coalesce out of the mist, falling to earth in fitful patters.

“So, then,” Crowley drawled. “How much longer d’you think they need to rotate the horses? Or—wait, _ is _ it the horses? Maybe the carriage wheels. Surely those rotate on their own…” He caught Aziraphale giving him a sidelong look that probably meant he was rambling, but Crowley was chilly and out of sorts and not about to apologize for any of it. “Oh, whatever they’re up to in the stable yard,” he finished testily.

“I’m afraid the, erm, practicalities of vehicles and quadrupeds aren’t really my area,” said Aziraphale. For the last fifty-odd centuries, the angel had gone to great lengths to learn about human beings: observing their histories, collecting their tales, even reading their hearts. When it came to their domesticated animals and newfangled contraptions, however, Aziraphale positively _ cherished _ his ignorance. “For all I know, they could be at it for hours.”

Crowley pursed his lips. He was all for keeping out of that rattletrap rig as long as possible, but he’d be buggered if he was going to traipse through bleak mizzle the whole time. 

Aziraphale had been thinking much the same thing, though in rather more genteel terms, when a thought occurred to him. He brightened and said, “I imagine we could pass the time quite comfortably at the local tavern. Cozy fire and all that.” A note of hopeful contrition crept into his voice. “It’s been ages since we raised a glass together, and really, it’s the least I can do.”

Crowley heartily agreed, but before he could respond, there was another pull on his elbow. Arching an incredulous eyebrow, he rounded on the woman who apparently couldn’t take a hint. Not even the rain soaking through the delicate, winding folds of her wimple seemed to faze her. What was worse, she started talking, her lilting voice nearly as insistent as her grabby little fingers.

The angel, already lost in happy contemplation of refreshments and a frankly improbable pile of pillows, suddenly realized he was walking alone. Vaguely mystified, he turned back to see Crowley ineffectually fending off a mortal who was clinging to him with one hand while coaxing him to take something from the other.

“Look, it’s no use gabbling, I can’t understand you.” Crowley snapped. The woman tipped her head to one side, as if waiting for what he said to make sense, then tugged at his sleeve again. He jerked it away, hissing,“Will you _get off!_”[1]

“You know very well you could understand the language if you tried, Crowley,” chided Aziraphale.

“Oh, come _on_, she’s not likely to be saying anything terribly interesting,” the demon retorted. “Probably just going on about the endless drizzle and muck and how you can’t get good wine here since the Romans went.” Crowley looked askance at the grey, spitting sky, and muttered, “It’s what _ I’d _ be saying, anyway.”

“And here I thought your side brought about the Fall of Rome.”

“What? Why would we want it to fall? A decadent empire is just the thing to spread venality — all those marvelous roads leading to far-flung provinces full of fresh people to skirmish and seduce and swindle.” A wistful sibilance practically caressed the words as they left his mouth. He’d always been drawn to the very edges of things — the periphery of firelight, the fringes of society, the brink of disaster. Places and moments poised such that one mortal word, one human deed could change _ everything. _

Of course, he generally found it wise to leg it once the die was actually cast. As the Empire crumbled, Crowley had gravitated back to the capital, spending a last few decades in that raddled beauty before she fell to the fire and dark. Downstairs were obscenely pleased to see a former pillar of civilization smashed, and as their demon-on-the-spot, Crowley had been credited with Vandal-ising the city. He hadn’t seen any point to telling them he hadn’t had a damned thing to do with it, but all these centuries later it still rankled.

“Now it’s all forgotten byways and grubby little hamlets made of _mud._” Crowley went to wave dismissively at the whole sodden mess, but the dramatic effect was rather spoiled by the small hand dragging on his arm.

Aziraphale had the grace not to laugh at the demon’s predicament. “I really don’t think this young person is interested in any of that, Crowley. In fact, I think you’ll find—”

“I don’t want to _ find_,” Crowley snarled. “I want her to stop _ following _ me.” He leaned down until he was mere inches from the woman’s face and glared at her over his smoked glasses. Her soft brown eyes widened as she stepped back (which he’d expected), but then she clasped something with both hands in front of her chest and _ beamed _ at Crowley (which he most definitely hadn’t).

He was puzzled and much too annoyed to keep playing charades. Crowley snapped his fingers, flatly demanding, “What?”

“I knew, Pagirnis — I knew you would return!” she exulted, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

“What _ him? _ But he’s a _ grass snake…” _ groaned Crowley. Not that he couldn’t take the form of a grass snake, but they were hardly awe-inspiring, with their little collars and muted coloration and regrettable tendency to prod at threats with their snout rather than biting. The locals even let them nest under beds and cradles to metaphysically protect their kids. It was embarrassing.

“As I was _ saying, _ I think you’ll find she’s offering you some bread,” Aziraphale said.

“What? Offering me _ bread?” _ Keeping his eyes locked on the reportedly loaf-bearing mortal who looked lost in a weirdly ecstatic moment, Crowley turned his face to the angel to ask, “Why would she offer bread to a snake?”

_ “We have no light; the Sun is weeping— _” the woman intoned softly. It seemed to Crowley that she was involved in a very different conversation there.

“She’s not offering bread to a snake, Crowley, she’s offering bread to _you_, as the incarnation of—” Aziraphale cut his explanation short with a little tsk. “How can a supernatural being who can change shape at will not understand something as simple as transcorporeal manifestation?”

_ “We have no milk; our herds perish—_”

“Oh, there’s nothing simple about _that,_ angel,” said Crowley pensively. “Shifting is easy, but what comes after… Well.” He slid his gaze to Aziraphale, looked at his eternally blue eyes and endlessly familiar features, and said, “You’ve been in that one form so long, you must’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t forgotten, thank you, I happen to _ like _ this form,” Aziraphale replied primly.

If they’d been deep in their cups like two sensible, un-waylaid beings, Crowley would’ve made a whole _ meal _ out of that. As it was, there was no way he was touching it with a 10-foot-pole. Or anything else, for that matter. He hummed noncommittally.

_ “We have no fire; our hearth is barren.”_ The woman held out the crust she’d been clutching to her breast. _“Long have we mourned; relent, return._”

Crowley squinted dubiously. “I still say she’s got some odd ideas about what to offer a snake—” he waved off the protest he just _ knew _ was in the offing, “—whatever his current form. That bread looks positively _ wretched.” _

“Yes, but it’s all she has, so—” Aziraphale suddenly gasped, then dashed forward to snatch the misshapen hunk from the woman’s unresisting hand. She went on staring at Crowley, arm outstretched, as she began to sway slightly on her feet.

“Oi!” shouted Crowley. “That’s _ my _ misguided offering…!”

But Aziraphale was absorbed in studying the bread. He made a moue of distaste. “Misguided is not the word,” he said.

“Now, look here—”

“No, not the idolatry — though I’m sure you would have tempted her to it had it occurred to you — I mean the offering itself,” Aziraphale said as he pointed at the item in question with his free hand. “The bread.”

Crowley looked rather bewildered, but leaned in to examine it anyway. A tentative sniff gave no further clue as to what Aziraphale was on about.

“The _ rye _ bread,” the angel clarified.

Crowley switched to glowering at it, hoping he wouldn’t have to hear the full list of ingredients before the big reveal.

Aziraphale heaved an exasperated sigh. “For Heaven’s sake, Crowley, you can detect these things just as well as I. The bread is simply _ riddled _ with that dreadful fungus that ravaged Paris. Surely you remember?”

Slouching his way more or less upright, Crowley said, “Oh, yes — people twitching and falling to bits. Bit gruesome, that. Called it Saints’ Fire, didn’t they?”

_ “I _ always heard it referred to as Devil’s Fire,” countered Aziraphale, “but that’s beside the point.” He nodded at the enraptured, unsteady human. “Look, this young lady is clearly afflicted and hallucinating that you are this, this Pagirnis. She’s trying to propitiate you.” His voice went as soft as his expression. “Because she’s dying. They all are. Poisoned by the only food they have.”

“Nothing I can do about it,” Crowley muttered. “Demons can’t just go _ un-_blighting crops…”

“No more can I,” murmured Aziraphale. “They’ve been rather, ah, terse about unsanctioned miracles recently.”

“Chary with the charity, eh?” Crowley bit off each word, as if sharpened scorn and pointed questions could move Heaven to anything but judgment. He ruthlessly shoved down all the thoughts and feelings trying to roil up; no one Above or Below had ever given a toss about them so far.

Aziraphale dropped his eyes. “Gabriel said it had to do with faith being the evidence of things not seen, and when I asked whether it might not be easier for people to believe in things while they were still alive to do it, well, he sent me on assignment here.”

He looked up at Crowley with knitted brows. “And do you know Uriel said? ‘Ask Mindaugas how easy his faith is tomorrow.’ One can’t help feeling that was unnecessarily cryptic.”

Crowley was about to detail how _ everything _ about the archangels was unnecessary, full stop, when Aziraphale suddenly popped a chunk of that tainted bread in his mouth.

“Angel! What in the God-forsaken vault of Heaven do you think you’re _ doing?!”_ The words tore from Crowley’s chest and screamed from his throat without his volition.

“Oh dear, that really _ was _ wretched,” Aziraphale whispered.

“And you thought— I mean, you _ate— _ You, you _ idiot!” _

“I suppose it was rather impulsive of me.” Aziraphale grimaced. “Still, be a bit silly to let my body be damaged by a trifle like tainted food. After all, I happen to _ like _ this form I was issued.”

“Are you… I can’t tell if you’re joking or mad,” Crowley said weakly.

“Fear not, I’ll have it sorted in a jiffy.” Aziraphale concentrated and a sort of audible shimmer whispered that something miraculous had just taken place.

Then Crowley watched, slack-jawed, as the angel sampled _ another _ morsel of bread and nodded.

“Mmm, there we are,” Aziraphale said as he held out the rest, “Do have some, Crowley — it’s only polite. And quite safe now.”

“Mad, then. Well, one of us is,” Crowley mumbled. “Not entirely sure which, though.” He reached out and partook of what the angel offered him. “Mph, ‘s act’ally pre’y good.”

The young woman stepped forward and smiled at Crowley, more shy than ecstatic now. “Yes, good! And there is more for you at my table. Come, eat and take your ease.”

“Stop,” said Crowley.

“You are both welcome—”

“No,” said Crowley. “I’m not who you think. I don’t care what you want. Go away.”

The young woman looked serene despite the rebuff. “I should not have spoken the name, but I do know who you are, messenger. I know whose love you bear. Your forgiveness restores us all.”

“Enough.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and as everything else stopped moving, he turned to Aziraphale. “Care to explain?”

“I-I’m sure I don’t know w-what you mean,” the angel stammered.

“Really. Because humans actively hallucinating their god tend to be quite _ biddable. _You know, lacking in free will due to being off their head.”

“Oh, well, perhaps she’s just… stubborn?”

“Stubborn is not the word,” the demon muttered.

_ “All right, _ I—I may have gotten a bit carried away with the miracle.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and waited.

“I told you: she was _dying! _And praying to Heaven for succour. What can it matter that she used a different name for the Almighty?”

Crowley couldn’t help but think back to the Flood, to all those humans crying out for salvation. They had first called to other people, then their gods, then _any_ Higher Power That Might Be for that same succour. As the waters closed over them, most had been praying on behalf of their children instead of themselves.[2]  


Aziraphale fiddled with the woven sash tied around his waist. “Besides, I’m meant to be blending in, and that means wearing their outfits, and speaking their language, and accepting their hospitality. I _ have _ to eat the food they offer.”

A ghost of a smile played over Crowley’s thin lips. “Starting with fungus-riddled bread?”

“As it happened.” The tips of Aziraphale’s ears turned pink. “You weren’t paying attention, and if you’d eaten it — well. An angel can’t exactly cure a demon.”

“So you rushed in, then fixed things so we could ‘accept their hospitality’, and what? Are you going to report her restoration as a bit of divine slosh?”

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale tutted. “I believe this falls under the category of generously repaying generosity. After all, it is more blessed to give than to receive.”

“That remains to be seen. Though even your lot can’t have _ that _ much paperwork for cleaning up one snack and associated human.”

“Erm,” mentioned Aziraphale.

“Oh, no.”

“I _ may _ have—”

“Oh no, you didn’t,” Crowley moaned. “Surely not the whole village?”

“Well, no,” hedged the angel.

Crowley did the thing with his eyebrows again.

“It was the villagers, the animals, and the fields, if you must know.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “And the grain stores.”

_ “Well.” _Crowley blew out a half-admiring breath.

“Officially speaking, this _ is _ a Christian nation. I’m sure there’s a priest hereabouts who could be, ah, encouraged to hold this up as a sign of divine benevolence.” The angel sounded more sure of himself now. “In fact, that would directly support my mission to the king. Head office _ can’t _ object to that.”

_ Oh, can’t they? _thought Crowley, but he swallowed the words. “They’d like it even better if you were directly thwarting some devious stratagem, though, wouldn’t they?”

“I suppose…?”

“Then allow me.” Crowley cupped one hand atop the other in front of his chest and concentrated. A darkling shimmer later, he uncovered a tiny mound of delicately-scaled coils nestled into the warmth of his palm. The grass snake raised its head, inquisitively tasting the air with its darting, forked tongue.

“What a charming creature,” Aziraphale cooed.

“’S not charming, ’s _ sssinisster. _You’re meant to be countering the pagan superstition it represents.”

“Yes, yes, but just look at its little collar!”

Crowley rolled his eyes so hard he nearly strained something. The demon swiftly arranged the woman’s hands and apron to securely hold the young serpent, then carefully deposited the animal. “Right. It is very definitely time to leave.”

“Aren’t you going to, ah—” Aziraphale spun his finger in a circle. “—start things back up?”

“Once we’re well away. I don’t fancy trying to dislodge that burr in human form again.”

As they walked back to the stable yard, Aziraphale said lightly, “She _ was _ persistent. Gratitude can do that to a person, though.”

“Shall we go tell her who she _ ought _ to be thanking, then?” Crowley riposted.

“No!” Aziraphale flustered. “No, of course not. I just meant… seeing you gave her hope.”

“Whatever she saw, it wasn’t me.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said conversationally. “Did you know grass snakes were traditionally thought to be envoys of the gods? They could confer blessings because they were the chosen conduits of the living sun, filled with the light of creation. Much like _ we _ were, at the very outset, I think.” He carefully kept his gaze trained on the path before them.

Crowley recalled what it had been like to be filled with that Light, spinning out star stuff — dust and brilliance and life — from his very being. It was a memory he rarely allowed to surface, not least because it made him wonder whether any glimmer of starlight still clung to his essence after being plunged through hellfire. Better to never look than stare into untrammelled darkness. Certainly not on the strength of a second-hand vision born of delirium and allegorical serpents.

“It’s a rather lovely thought, anyway,” said Aziraphale.

“You know quite a lot of their folktales, don’t you?” Crowley asked nonchalantly.

“Oh, my, yes. There was this marvelous storyteller—”

“Right!” interjected Crowley. “That’s the entertainment sorted then.”

Aziraphale gave the demon a somewhat perplexed look.

“And it just so happens that a cask of mead and an enormous heap of cushions are ready to be loaded in.” Crowley gestured towards a laden cart sitting next to their carriage.

At least, Aziraphale presumed it was theirs — it was the only covered vehicle in sight, though he didn’t remember it being quite so _ decorative _ earlier. Now it boasted blue paint with a gilt sunburst on the curved roof and what appeared to be a crimson serpent motif on heavy curtains.

“If we’re going to pass for prosperous merchants, we have to ride in style,” said Crowley.

“Oh!” beamed Aziraphale. “Oh, _ really _? Tha—”

“Ah-ah!” Crowley pointed at his companion. “I told you,” he said, snapping his fingers, “I’ll be handling the travel arrangements from here on out.” The bustle of industrious people and restive horses suddenly filled the air.

“I suppose this means I’ll have to stand that round another time, then.”

“Oh, well, you’re an angel—” Crowley’s ophidian eyes danced with mirth. “—I’m sure you’ll give the devil his due.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1 The current consensus among linguists is that it’s quite impossible to hiss words without sibilants in them. These linguists have all had the good fortune to never cross Crowley, who in the right — or very wrong — mood could turn even the most vibrant consonants, the most sonorant vowels into something shockingly fricative. Crowley could not only hiss in Hawaiian, he could do so in _sign language._ [ return to text ]
> 
> 2 If there were rather more kids tucked into the creche of the ark the next morning, not one of the concubines or servants ever mentioned it. Certainly not the two who no one quite remembered seeing before (though they obviously belonged there) or could really recall forty days later. [ return to text ]


End file.
